Pain
by cedricslove
Summary: John is left to deal with his pain after watching Sherlock die.


His heart burned as he looked at those familiar numbers "221 B" before him, the alcohol racing through his body making him irrationally angry at the door. He slumped inside and pulled himself up the stairs. His foot was dragging though and he wasn't sure he could make it to the top. He hated Sherlock for doing this to him, for causing his limp to come back and hurt worse than it ever used to. It had been three years since the detective had died. Three years since John had a friend or someone to return to. Although he supposed that wasn't really fair. Mrs. Hudson loved him like her own son, and it was for her sake that he continued living there, so she wouldn't have to face losing them both. Mycroft came around often enough; although the first time John had seen him he had broken his nose the elder Holmes brother did not seem to resent him. There was Molly, although she was often distant. She would arrive at the flat, take in his drunken state, notice the weight loss and bags under his eyes before she hastily made her excuses and fled. But John didn't care, they had never been close. For a while someone, a girl named Mary, had been able to break through his shell. He had been happier and drunk less often when he was with her, but it had all ended when he called her Sherlock after sex one night. The pity in her eyes had been the worst, her knowing glance as she told him to leave.

John sat down on the steps, not able to make it up all 17 before his leg gave out under him. Thinking of the number that Sherlock had once told him made his heart burn again and tears pricked at his eyes. Gathering himself he shuffled up the rest of the steps and into Sherlock's bedroom. He could still feel his best friend when he was in this room. It was as if Sherlock surrounded him, and that was all John needed tonight. He collapsed on Sherlock's bed and only then did he let himself cry. His sobs were silent now, so used to them was he, but his body was racked by their force and severity. He always thought that drinking would numb the pain but it only numbed his senses, not the loss inside of him. But he didn't care; when he was passed out he couldn't remember anyway. Eventually his crying ceased and he just laid there, staring at the ceiling until light could be seen outside. He picked himself up and walked downstairs, sitting in his armchair as he read the latest medical reports. His head was pounding but he knew that it would subside before work, it always did.

Three hours later John went back to his room and changed for the day. He hailed a cab and went to the clinic where he had made quiet a name for himself. People even asked for him directly now. He went through all of his cases that day, feeling nothing when men and women came in with terrible injuries or illnesses. He could only think that any illness was better than death. He worked straight through lunch and managed to leave early. He went and hailed a cab to take him to the nearest pub where he proceeded to get drunk again. The barrister had tried to stop serving him long ago, but John knew that Mycroft's influence made him turn a blind eye now. John drank until he could no longer think and then he wandered home, shuffling up the stairs and into Sherlock's room, letting the sobs take him once again.

It had been three years since John had felt anything but pain, and all he could ever think about was his desire to end it all. The only thing that stopped him was he knew he wasn't ready yet. Death he could face, he had seen enough of it in the war to know that everyman died, and he knew his day was fast approaching. John wasn't ready to see Sherlock yet, to confront the man for leaving him alone to a world of hurt. There was no one to save him this time, but John needed more time to figure out the words he would say in the afterlife. So he waited. He sat with the gun next to him every night, knowing the day was fast approaching, and then he would be ready.

When John trudged around the apartment the next morning he realized it was Tuesday and that Mycroft would be over in only fifteen minutes. He quickly dressed and made tea, trying to quell the pounding headache that was worse than usual. When Mycroft entered the flat John was seated in his armchair, although he quickly rose at the sight on the other man's face. Mycroft was as white as a ghost, hands shaking and his breathing uncontrollable in a way that John had never observed before. Mycroft's eyes landed on John and his face fell even more. "You've been drinking again doctor." John nodded; not bothering to deny what they both knew was true. "One of these days it is going to kill you."

John shook his head this time. "I am a damned good doctor and I know my limits Mycroft. The only thing that is going to kill me is my own gun when I finally have the courage to face Sher-_him_."

Mycroft's face paled again. "John there is something that you need to know, something that I assure you I have only found out myself." Silence fell between the two men, Mycroft trying to compose himself, and John waiting, knowing the older man would figure it out. "John, you must know that…"

"I am not dead." A voice from the doorway sounded, cutting Mycroft off. The voice was so familiar but it pained him.

John started to shake, his eyes never leaving Mycroft's. But the elder man was staring behind him, unable to breathe. John turned around and saw a sight he never believed he would again. Impossibly gray-blue eyes gazed at him from above sharp cheekbones. John turned back to Mycroft, "It isn't real Mycroft. I saw him jump, I saw his blood, and I took his goddamn pulse as he lay on the pavement."

"I am real." The voice sounded again, although softer this time as if unsure.

"This isn't happening; it is a trick, a ruse. It must be Mycroft. Because if Sher-_he_ was still alive, he would have told us. It's been three years and you know _him_."

Mycroft nodded and turned back to the man in the doorway. "It is precisely why I know him that I believe he is real." John heard the man cross to the door and the sounds of an embrace filled his senses.

John turned around again and stared at the man. The dark, soft curls that framed his face, the blue scarf gently hung around his neck, and the coat were all it took to finally convince him that Sherlock wasn't dead. That he was very much alive and standing in the entry of thei-_his_ flat. Sherlock smiled gently realizing that John had finally accepted the truth and he took a step towards the doctor. "John I am so sorry. I know it has been a long time but…"

Something inside of John snapped. "A LONG TIME? THREE MONTHS WOULD HAVE BEEN A BLOODY LONG TIME. YOU JUMPED OFF THAT BUILDING KNOWING THAT I WAS WATCHING, THAT I WAS BEGGING YOU TO STAY." He screamed, years of anger and pain welling inside of him. "I WATCHED YOU BLOODY OFF YOURSELF IN FRONT OF ME!" John stopped backing away, trying to catch his breath as the Holmes brothers stared at him, one in sympathy and the other in confusion.

"John I'm sorry but I had to, I had to keep you safe."

John shook his head, pain coursing through his body as his leg gave out under him and he crashed to the floor. Sherlock made a move toward him but Mycroft held him back, something John was extremely grateful for. After a long moment of pulling himself off the ground John looked into those beautiful eyes. "You left me." he ground out, pain lacing every word. "I thought that I would be enough to make you stay. That I was a good enough friend to make you come back to me, or at least explain the truth. I thought that what we shared was real." John took a deep breath to steady himself but he couldn't take it anymore. He looked down at his feet and said softly, "I believed in you Sherlock, I knew that you were never a fraud. I thought that if I begged you not to do it then you would think about it and climb down. But you made me watch you die." John took another rattling deep breath. "I loved you Sherlock." He said before limping towards the door, pushing past the tall, thin man and walking outside to where his normal cab was waiting to take him to clinic.

But John didn't go to the clinic that day. He texted Sarah telling her there was an emergency and apologized but she brushed it off, replying that he hadn't had a day off in almost three years. So john just let the cabbie drive him around. He got out at Hyde Park and spent a long time staring at the trees. Pain coursed through him as he thought about how his best friend, the man he had loved, was still alive. Even though he had never expressed his feelings to the detective he had never felt the need too. Sherlock was able to deduce almost anything about him and that made it unnecessary. John's heart stopped as he realized that Sherlock must have known, that it had been the reason he had stayed away for three long and terrible years. John began to cry again, and he hung his head in shame. He realized that he wasn't good enough for Sherlock. He wasn't smart enough to keep up and he was way too boring to provide the distractions that Sherlock demanded in a partner. This pain had been brought upon himself. Why did he have to fall in love with a man who had told him he was married to his work? Sherlock must have been waiting for john to move on, but that would never happen.

John was wrenched from his thoughts by someone kneeling before him. "It isn't what you're thinking John. I never knew how you felt about me, although now I feel how everyone else always must, like a complete idiot. You were the first friend I had and I couldn't' screw that up. I didn't want to lose you simply because I was confused about my, emotions towards you. I thought it would help you move on if you were angry with me that's why I made you watch me fall. I shouldn't have stayed away for so long but Moriarty had his men coming after you. He said that if I didn't jump they would kill you. I couldn't risk that and I couldn't risk coming back until all of his men were dead. I'm incredibly sorry John," the pain and sincerity in his voice made the doctor's head snap up. "What I did to you was terrible and I hope you can forgive me. Because I love you too."

John stared at the other man intensely for a few minutes. "It doesn't make it go away."

"What?"

"You're apology. It doesn't take away the past three years of misery. But all I longed for that entire time was for you to come back. So now that you're here I'm not going to let you go. It's going to take time for me to trust you and completely forgive you Sherlock."  
>"I know John," he said with a slight smile. "But I'm going to take away the pain." John nodded and wrapped his arms around the detective, sitting there just holding the other man, listening to his heart beat, proof he was truly alive.<p>

After a long silence john raised his head shyly and looked into Sherlock's eyes. "I still love you."  
>"I know," the detective said, true joy showing in his eyes. "Now let's go home. I'll explain everything at Baker Street." John nodded, letting his wonderful, beautiful detective take him home.<p>

**AN: I hope you enjoyed this, I threw it together really fast, but I needed a way to get out my emotions over the fall. Please review as this is my first Sherlock fic.**


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